was an old
man nearer
eighty
than
seventy
when I saw
him,and I
recall of
him
personally
his dark
tint,and
the
scholarly
refinement
of his
clean-shaven
face,which
seemed to
me rather
English
than
American
in
character.He
was quite
exterior
to the
Atlantic
group of
writers,and
had no
interest
in me as
one of it.
Literary
Boston of
that day
was not a
solidarity,as
I soon
perceived;and
I
understood
that it
was only
in my
quality of
stranger
that I saw
